The French House by Helen Fripp (english readers TXT) 📗

life that peasants have lived for hundreds of years. Your revolution has changed all of that here. Daniel’s blood was not wasted, that is my comfort.’

‘He believed in the revolution,’ said Nicole, realising that one of the reasons she was on this barge, hauling a cargo she hoped to smuggle against all the odds to Russia, was to give François’ life meaning, too. ‘You’ve borne it all with dignity and spirit, dear Natasha.’

‘I don’t want pity. My life has been one of relative prosperity. I love the boulangerie and I have my independence and dignity. My mother had neither. It’s allowed me to be an observer of life. I don’t know, I see. I am invisible behind my counter and people unwittingly let me into their lives. I knead dough, feel the gritty flour on my fingertips, decorate it as my mother taught me and listen. Things happen in full sight if you just open your eyes and keep quiet. I see charged glances between lovers pointing to their morning croissants with no appetite, their eyes glazed with a kind of madness.’ Natasha tutted, eyeing Nicole. ‘Do they really think nobody notices? I’ve seen what the world tolerates when they look the other way, too. The bright-eyed children who come to beg stale bread, orphaned by poverty, turning from rosy-cheeked innocents to angular, dead-eyed thieves. It drove Daniel to challenge the Comte in the square that day. I’ve seen good things too. Girls with flowers in their hair blushing over cream meringues with their beaux, returning over the years to show off their babies, plump and creamy as the meringues. You were one of them.’ She smiled.

‘A million years ago,’ said Nicole.

‘If I’ve learned anything, it’s that anything is possible. Impossible dreams happen – but not if you stick to the rules, Babouchette.’

The Canal de la Meuse meandered through the Belgian border and became the Maas. Days and weeks slipped by. Villages and towns lined the water, in places sleepy, elsewhere alive with commerce: cargo winched back and forth, barrels rolled noisily into warehouses; cows cooled in the shallows, women washed clothes and screeches of laughter echoed off the water. With so much traffic, it was a world of waiting at locks, mêlées of shouts, instructions and tall stories. Over the border, the same flat horizons met them, but the fields were full of precious tulips. Windmills creaked like big, ticking clocks, marking lost time.

The night before they were due to sail from Amsterdam, they arrived at a flight of thirteen locks. It was already past dark, and the night was moonless. The barge pilot refused to negotiate so many in the dark, so Nicole agreed that an early start would give them plenty of time to meet the 3 p.m. deadline she had agreed with the ship’s captain.

‘Thirteen is too unlucky to leave it until tomorrow,’ Natasha warned.

‘Let’s not push our luck tonight, in the dark,’ said Nicole.

The water roared as it rushed through the lock gate, swallowing the dark space above it. François might have been drawn to this in one of his black moods and she wouldn’t be there to save him. She shivered at the ghost.

The clock struck three, then four. Sleep wouldn’t come. She ached for François, for Thérésa, for Louis. Better to rise, even if just to freeze on deck. Pulling a shawl tight around her shoulders, she stepped out, the horizon a dirty smudge of dim light. Thirteen locks stepped steeply down, but at least they were the first barge in the queue and the minute the sun was high enough to light the fields, they’d be off.

Careful not to wake Natasha, Nicole crept up onto the towpath to get a better look at the locks. She peered into the first; the black was water way below, with most of the ladder visible above water, so deep it would surely take a good half an hour to fill.

As she looked closer, water began to trickle in, though she hadn’t seen anyone open the gate. There was something about the depth that gave her that edge-of-a-cliff sensation, drawing her into its depths. Absorbed in her thoughts, she heard someone behind her too late, moving very fast. They grabbed her waist from behind, gripping so tight it took her breath away. She opened her mouth to scream, but a hand clamped it shut. It tasted of salt and grime.

‘Don’t start what you can’t finish.’ His hiss was hot and rancid at her ear. ‘Give up the shipment, go home like a good little girl.’

He held her over the edge of the lock. The water began to roar as it spewed in, the level rising.

The man’s grip tightened, his stinking body pressed against her. ‘Advice from Monsieur Jean-Rémy Moët.’

‘Please,’ she choked, terrified.

He let go, but the force of the release made her stumble and she fell forward into the icy water which rushed in at her. She clawed at the surface, fighting to keep her head above the foam, her dress dragging her under. Gasping, she tugged off her underskirt and it was sucked out of her hands by the undertow. She shot up out of the water, fighting for air. The water swallowed her scream and gagged her, the level churning upwards. Thrusting for the black sky, she surfaced again and took another shuddering breath. She could just make out Natasha craning over the side.

‘Help me!’ she shrieked.

‘Spread your arms and legs and breathe. Save your energy!’

Back under again, water booming in her ears. A figure scrambled down the ladder and stretched out his hand. She fixed on the lifeline, but the drag pulled her back. Hope heightened her choking panic. Her lungs burned and her legs ached with cold and effort.

‘You can do it! Kick for your life, this is not your time!’ screamed Natasha.

Nicole thrust with all her strength and gripped the hand, felt herself pulled forward.

‘Keep your head up, I’ll do the rest.’

The man yanked her to the ladder and she gripped